


Disco Liquid

by GioseleLouise



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Cockblocking, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GioseleLouise/pseuds/GioseleLouise
Summary: “Listen,” he says. Jean shifts closer and their shoulders bump against each other. Neither man moves away. “My performance was stellar. I was a goddamn superstar. But Harry can’t hold a note to save his life.”—Kim gets drunk. His composure slips and he makes a move on his partner. The situation gets Harry Du Bois’d.
Relationships: Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	Disco Liquid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rathma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathma/gifts).



It’s Wednesday night and a hundred police officers are crammed into a Boogie Street bar.

Jean and Harry were on stage, mics in hand, having somehow convinced the bar manager that Sylvia Trainor’s “Wonderful” would be great as a male duet cover. Four Potent Pilsners and three shots of tequila sit heavy in Kim Kitsuragi’s stomach. His thoughts are as sensible as scooping water with an open palm and he has no clue what the people around him are saying. Who they are. Congratulations and platitudes have been flowing all night and it takes all of his concentration to keep from acting like a total ass. He is fucking blasted.

“Precinct 41!”

All eyes turn to Harry Du Bois screaming into a mic and posturing on stage like a circus ringleader. Harry is, in this moment, the only sober off-duty police officer in all of Jamrock. There’s a mean joke there, thinks Kim. But his brain is too busy trying to keep his head from lulling into a horizontal position.

“A round of applause for Jean Vicquemare and Kim Kitsuragi!”

The bar erupts in thunder.

“-For being the best goddamn policemen in Revachol-” the applause increases, “-and taking down the motherfucking Vaugrenaud Gang!” Like a powder keg, the bar explodes. Kim feels thousands, _millions_ of hands on him. Someone screams in his face. Dozens of empty palms go up around him, demanding an Ace’s High. It’s hard. He thinks he feels someone grab his wrist and help him.

On stage, Harry leaps into Jean, engulfing the other man in a bear hug. The Precinct had been plying Jean with drinks all night and he stumbles, falling backwards into the wall. Kim winces.

The audience laughs and hoots.

“Get a room!”

Jean’s middle finger is visible under Harry’s limbs.

“Calm down, you pervs,” Harry says after disentangling himself, “Who’s ready for some Sylvia Trainor? Fuck, it’s hot up here. Can we turn down the spotlight?”

That gets a much kinder reception. People swarm Kim’s booth like flies while the two men on stage harangue the bar manager over the set up; Everyone wants to have a drink with the Lieutenant that took down a gang in his first three months at the 41st.

Kim entertains the best he can. It’s not hard when everyone is as stupidly drunk as he is. He pretends to drink after each cheer and laughs at the stories he can hear through the din. Keeps glancing at the men on stage. They must’ve given up on the spotlight dimming because their blazers are in a heap on the stage’s bar stool. Kim catches Jean pulling off his tie in a practiced motion. Smooth. Watches him pluck the collar and top buttons of his dress shirt to vent the skin there.

Kim swallows.

His fingers tighten around the neck of his Pilsner bottle. Drunk honesty collides with want and Kim imagines pushing his partner against the wall and-

A cigarette and lighter are in his hands before Kim realizes he’s standing up. His head spins from the sudden motion and Kim grabs on the booth for balance. He can deal with it. He needs to. “Sorry,” he slurs to the people sitting around him. Holds up his lighter and cigarette in explanation. “Need some fresh air.”

It’s three months into his transfer, and the last thing he needs is for the entire Precinct to watch him salivate over Jean Vicquemare. _During karaoke_. The track for “Wonderful” starts just as Kim pushes through the front door.

The still summer air doesn’t feel any cooler than the inside of the bar. Maybe that's why no one from the Precinct is loitering outside. Next door, the apartment has a recessed entrance that could hide him and Kim stumbles over. He pushes his weight into the wood and tries to still his spinning vision. Somehow lights his cigarette.

It would be so much easier if it was just a crush. His appreciation could be compartmentalized. Noted and tucked away so Kim can move on with his life and his work. But they got _close_ ; Their case was supposed to be a simple homicide, something routine to ease Kim into life at the 41st, but it blew up into a three-month operation that took down a goddamn gang.

Maybe it was their similarities that let this happen. Du Bois had gotten under his skin in Martinaise. The bumbling amnesiac triggered Kim’s protective instinct and rewarded him with breathtaking efficacy. By week’s end, they did it. Motive, murderer, method, and a new species tied neatly with a bow and presented to the 41st. And Harry did it sober. Kim was impressed.

And despite Jean’s insistence to the contrary, Jean reminded Kim of Harry. Definitely not in Harry’s eccentric delivery _,_ but in other ways. In their ‘On the Grind’ work ethic. In their uncanny insight and their senses of humor. In the way both men insist on running everywhere. And in their compassion, although he’s starting to feel that the younger man may have Harry beat.

It was nice to work with someone like Harry without his eccentricities. To have a partner that smelled like sandalwood cologne instead of Commodore Red. Someone who dressed in fitted suits instead of mesh shirts and trousers scavenged from fishing villages. To have a partner with a toned back and expressive grey eyes…

The door to the bar swings open. Laughter and music flood into the quiet street.

“Kim?”

Of course. Kim strikes his head into the wood.

‘ _Isn’t this incredible,’_ says a delightfully wicked voice, ‘ _You’ve been thinking about him all night. Here’s your chance to talk to him. **Alone**.’_

Kim’s stomach flips at the thought - it’s a terrible idea. _It’s a wonderful idea._

Jean finds him somehow. Spots Kim tucked into the door frame, drunk as a dog, and watching the embers of his cigarette falling to the ground.

Kim doesn’t know what to say. The lieutenant looks utterly dashing. Casual in his white dress shirt, collar still loose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The plan was to avoid Jean after his second shot of tequila. Hop from table to table, keep a healthy distance so he doesn’t gawk at his partner like an idiot.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” Jean says eventually.

Kim inhales nicotine and smoke. It’s a miracle his hand isn’t shaking. “I needed air. It’s hot in there.”

“It’s a thousand degrees outside, Kim.” Despite that, Jean joins him under the doorway. Leans against the wood with a satisfied sigh. “I thought you were going to get drunk tonight?”

This close, Kim can smell sandalwood cologne mixed with the heady scent of scotch. Jean pushes the back of his head into the wood with the look of a man trying to keep his vision from spinning. A bead of sweat travels down his neck. Kim wants to lick it off.

“Lieutenant, this is the most drunk I’ve been in a long time.”

“Sure,” Jean says sardonically, “At least _pretend_ to look drunk. Enjoy yourself, Kim. Please. We just took down a fucking gang.”

Jean beams as he says it and Kim smiles with him. The words don’t register sometimes, but when they do Revachol feels brighter, softer, lighter. This catch did a lot for Jamrock. Would do a lot for Jamrock. One great thing among an island of shit and failure.

“Du Bois had some constructive feedback,” Kim says.

His partner laughs. “Of course he fucking does.”

“He thought we could’ve handled Mother Vaugrenaud’s interrogation better.”

“Because she took too long to crack? Or were we too harsh? Can you be less specific, Kim?”

Jean’s tone is artificially playful, careless. That he’s asking at all speaks volumes.

Kim smiles softly. “I’ll have to ask Harry to give us _both_ a recap. I am quite drunk, detective.”

Grey eyes observe him. “Drunk enough to get on stage?”

Du Bois and Vicquemare were both like this. Muddied the water with banter and playfulness so you couldn't see when they'd strike. But when they did it was near impossible to deny them. Kim feels his insides stir and lust flares, inconvenient.

Kim’s been turned on by worse.

“I suspect I’ll end up on that stage before the end of the night,” Kim agrees solemnly, “Despite my protests. Perhaps I’ll go now, while standards are low. Someone just did the worst cover of ‘Wonderful.’”

“Listen,” he says. Jean shifts closer and their shoulders bump against each other. Neither man moves away. “My performance was _stellar_. I was a goddamn superstar. But Harry can’t hold a note to save his life.”

“ _Sure_ , detective.”

Kim leans into Jean, skin humming at the contact. Wishes he were drunk enough to let himself rest his head on his partner’s shoulder. To just sink into this man he’s admired for so long. But that would be a terribly obvious thing.

Jean is staring at Kim’s mouth. The cigarette there. “Could I bum a smoke?”

_Right. Calm down, Lieutenant._

But Kim left the pack of Astras inside. Jean watches him pat down his empty pockets and gestures towards the half-used cigarette. Palm up.

Kim avoids looking too closely at his partner’s forearm. Avoids staring at the ridge of muscle. Tries not imagine how Jean’s skin would taste if Kim traced his veins with his tongue. Tries not to wonder if Jean has felt someone dig their teeth into the muscle there. If he’d liked it.

_Fuck. **Calm down** , Lieutenant._

Jean plucks the cigarette from his outstretched hand; their fingers touch for a brief moment and Kim is not the last one to pull back.

“Thanks.”

The cigarette slips easily between his partner’s lips. Jean takes a long pull. Kim wonders if Jean tastes his Pilsner. Wonders if he’ll be able to taste the other man’s scotch when he returns the cigarette.

He realizes he’s staring.

Jean exhales, smoke dissipating before them. “I like seeing you like this, Lieutenant.”

The ocean roars in his ears. The formality throws Kim off; It’s all fucking throwing him off. He can’t get a read on the gleam in his partner’s eyes. Can’t get a read on anything anymore. Between the alcohol, his drunken fantasies, and the heat Jean is putting on his shoulder, Kim’s brain is short-circuiting.

His mouth struggles to form the words, “…Like what?”

Jean tilts his head towards Kim, studying him. This close, Kim can trace the flush on his cheeks.

“Distracted.”

Kim wraps his hand around the other man’s neck and pulls him forward. They crash into each other and Kim presses into Jean’s lips, feels the soft edges of his beard, tastes nicotine and scotch. Heat flares from his stomach to his chest, the smell of liquor and sandalwood hypnotizing him. 

And then Jean shoves him.

Rejection guts like a bayonet before his body registers he's been pushed to the wall. The detective is pointedly _not_ looking at him, standing away, his expression stone-faced, cold.

_Oh my god._

His stomach plunges. In the face of sudden disaster, Kim feels jarringly, humiliatingly sober. Thoughts come alive. Like a broken record, his brain replays his mistake, overlaying each instance with the realization of how badly he’s just fucked his professional life.

_Kim Kitsuragi, what have you done?_

Kim notices Harry Du Bois, _of all fucking people,_ in front of them.

“Hey, Vic! Oh, hi Kim. I didn’t realize you were both out here,” Harry glances between the two men, “…Everything alright?”

“We’re fucking drunk, Harry,” Jean says smoothly. He steps forward to shield Kim from Harry’s gaze and, Kim shamefully understands, to put distance between them.

Du Bois snorts, “Explains your performance on stage.”

“Shut the fuck up - I wasn’t the one that forgot the lyrics! For the record, I wanted to do the bridge but you were all ‘ _No Jean, it’s practically the chorus. It’ll come to me._ ’”

It’s impressive how quickly the Lieutenant can switch tracks. Sweep this off his shoulder like it wasn’t the most mortifying thing that’s he’s ever done. Not like Kim. Heart plunging and fractured composure struggling to piece itself together. Kim, who is pressing his back into the doorway to keep his shaking legs from sliding onto the floor. Trying to keep his shit together for Harry’s sake.

He’s never misread a man so badly.

“…and McLaine are up there butchering ‘We Go On’.”

“Shit. Yeah, I’ll come up in a minute.”

“Hurry up! That’s _our_ fucking song.”

Harry storms off. Somewhere behind the archway, a door opens and floods the street with music and conversation. It shuts.

They’re both adults, Kim rationalizes. This could be laughed off as a joke, a drunken mistake that Jean would (hopefully) forget the next morning.

“Detective,” Kim sighs, heart pounding. Better late than never.

Jean turns to Kim, expression unreadable. Kim’s chest tightens. They both speak at the same time.

“That was a mistake.”

“That was nice.”

“ _What_?”

Relief floods, palpable, and Kim laughs. A misunderstanding then. A mistake, but not a terrible one.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” Jean realizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want Harry to be an asshole before we-”

They what? Made out? Went home together? Fucked each other senseless in an alleyway? Kim cocks his head, curious. But for once, Jean Vicquemare is at a loss for words - his legendary reaction speed failing him.

“Detective, I’m beginning to suspect you came outside with an ulterior motive.”

Kim doesn’t mean to grin, but it’s hard not to when relief floods his veins and Jean is looking at him so incredulously. His expression almost makes Harry’s appearance worth it.

“Perhaps we should talk about this tomorrow.” The implication hangs in the air. _Sober_.

His partner’s expression is impatience personified, “ _Tomorrow_?”

Kim takes a deep breath, schools his face to neutrality.

It was an irresponsible move from the beginning; There’s too much alcohol, too many people. There’s still a chance that Jean will wake up tomorrow regretting this. If he’ll even remember it. If this is a mistake, they’re not too developed in their relationship that this is something they can shrug off easily. Or at all.

And he’s loathe to squander a partnership with him - Jean’s too good a detective for that. Done wrong, this could ruin everything. Put lives at risk.

Kim doesn’t drop his stare.

“ _Fine_ ,” Jean relents, “I can be a fucking gentleman.” The man looks at the still-burning cigarette between his fingers, almost burnt to the filter. Hands it over.

Their fingers brush. Again, Kim is the first to pull away.

Jean sighs. “Fucking Harry and his karaoke…I should get back inside.”

“Right.” Kim kills the rest of the cigarette, chases the taste of scotch. Smiles at a memory. _That was nice._

They’ll laugh about this one day.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, detective. Enjoy karaoke.”

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Jean. Finally able to whittle down Kim’s composure only for Harry to ruin the moment and Kim to reset that shit back to 100.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
